‘Oh, I think you’ll find he is,’ lied Lily, her mind racing to develop some credible explanation for the bare-bottomed phenomenon. ‘He’s wearing special acrobatic tights that are made of flesh-coloured material.’
She paused in her fabricated explanation, hoping fervently that the man would keep his back to the old lady to lend her story some semblance of plausibility. But it was not to be. The railing to which the unhappy Paul Charbonnier clung now rotated slowly and gracefully, allowing a full, detailed view of the man’s front. This served only to confirm the old lady’s conviction that the man’s nether regions were indeed vividly unclad. The tantalising view was too much for the unfortunate Madame Auguste who screamed as the full frontal aspect filled the lenses of her opera glasses, her little dog yapping furiously beside her as if to add to her outrage. She dropped the glasses, which landed in a large potted geranium in the courtyard below. Madame herself fainted away, slipping gracefully from view, the shock of the dangling nether regions simply too much for her delicate sensitivities.
An exhausting hour later, the rescue had been effected and Monsieur Paul Charbonnier hauled, inch by agonising inch, from his perilous trapeze to the safety of the balcony, clinging to one of Coco’s bed sheets for all he was worth. Lily had bolted to the entranceway to check whether his furious wife was still in evidence while Coco restored his clothing. Lily reached the top of the stairs on her way back and was almost bowled over by a charging Monsieur Paul who leapt past her with the speed of a frightened rabbit.
‘Yes, it’s all clear,’ she sang after him, to be answered only by the resounding bang of the front door. She sauntered to the sitting room and collapsed heavily on one of the sofas. The morning’s efforts had all but exhausted what she had considered her limitless reserves of strength. She surveyed herself realising that she was still wearing her pale pink chenille pyjamas and faux silk dressing gown. Coco appeared from her room clad in her signature trousers and crisp white shirt and drawing heavily on a cigarette.
‘Your client left in rather a hurry,’ complained Lily, ‘nearly knocked me down the stairs!’ Coco exhaled languidly, watching the wispy spirals of smoke flatten and linger like a silken curtain in the sun-filled room.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she replied casually, ‘he had quite a fright. Besides, he had rather a nasty rash on his delicates after being hauled up the building.’ Lily sat up in consternation.
‘Poor fellow,’ she said, ‘I hope you soothed his pain for him.’ Coco inhaled again, this time blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. She was clearly more engrossed in her cigarette than the fate of the hapless man’s private parts.
‘I had some lotion that I thought might help, so we applied it as best we could, given the location of the graze.’
‘We?’
‘Actually not me, Crecy did it for him.’
‘Crecy?’ Lily sat bolt upright with shock. ‘You let Crecy massage lotion into his ... oh Coco, how could you?! No wonder he bolted like a hunted rabbit!’ Coco was smiling, her mannish face lit with a mixture of amusement and schadenfreude.
‘Reckon he deserved it,’ she replied, her voice laced with enjoyment. ‘Anyway, it’s taught him a lesson, hasn’t it? This is one man who’ll stay faithful to his wife from now on.’
‘Actually, I feel a bit sorry for the wife,’ said Lily, suddenly remembering Annette Charbonnier’s shocking discovery. ‘She went into Sabine’s room looking for her husband.’ Coco looked at her with gleeful anticipation. ‘Sabine was entertaining one of her lady friends and I don’t think Madame Charbonnier was quite expecting to see such a sight ...’ Coco laughed out loud.
‘They’ll have lots to talk about in the marital cot tonight, won’t they?’
Chapter 16
An odious interloper
As the days warmed, Madame Claudette’s condition improved and Monsieur Maurice felt the tension that had gripped his heart loosen and lift. He now concentrated his efforts on the state of his cabaret, over which he fretted anxiously, concerned that he may have neglected Le Prix and its patrons during the dark winter months. He need not have worried. During his prolonged vigils at Madame’s bedside, Alain had acted as manager and, working with Hiram and the supremely efficient Madame Lucille, had ensured that Le Prix retained its sparkle, its stores replete and its glossy exterior glitzy and inviting. Le Prix’s clientele had responded by packing its sumptuous theatre night after night and thronging the bar well past the start of the curfew. The German Military Governor was one of Le Prix’s most regular patrons and his staff handed passes to those who stayed to drink with him past curfew time in an atmosphere of bonhomie. Alain, smartly turned out in a suit that had graced Madame Gloria’s Hubert in former days, proved an adept host and a savvy manager of the cabaret’s resources. He wore a white sling into which he slipped his wounded arm — now completely healed — whenever he left the safety of Le Prix and at night as he moved among the German patrons. He was convinced that, had he appeared able-bodied, he would have been rapidly shipped off to a labour camp somewhere in Germany. Monsieur greeted his cabaret staff with a sigh of relief and a broad grin, patting Alain vigorously on the back and shaking the hand of his cheery friend, Hiram. He bowed courteously to Madame Lucille and thanked them all before heading to the practice rooms to check on the progress of the showgirls.
Le Prix’s dancers boasted a healthy repertoire of routines which they rotated to provide their patrons some variety in their cabaret diet. Monsieur Maurice arrived to find the girls prancing and kicking on cue with Madame Claudette firing commands from the depths of a comfy chair, her willowy frame nestled deeply in an array of coloured cushions and buried beneath a mountain of soft, fluffy blankets. Touches of her old spark resurfaced in her biting comments and insistent demands for repeated movements until the requisite standard was achieved. Maurice smiled to himself. Madame’s technique was merciless, but it bred tough showgirls who were extraordinarily skilled in their art. Those who could not cope with the pitiless regime simply moved on. Despite this, Maurice could not remember the last time a showgirl had left ... perhaps it was the unfortunate Sybilla who, but for a penchant for champagne and men with fast cars would still be among the ranks of Le Prix’s showgirls. Ah, but then there would be no Lily ...
Lily was enjoying herself. Her dance techniques had improved immensely under Madame Claudette’s careful and exacting tutelage and she thrived on the life of Le Prix and its colourful company. She realised that dancing in the company’s shows had become even more exhilarating since she had found someone to dance for. Her relationship with Bobby Metzinger may not have progressed far along the road to romance, but she found his company heady and intoxicating and he clearly enjoyed his contact with her. They had begun to confide in each other, to exchange little snippets of gossip, to laugh at the antics of the other patrons and Le Prix’s performers, and to tap each other for information that could prove useful.
‘The Military Governor is not here tonight.’
‘No, he is in Berlin for consultations. But, you see his deputy is here without him.’
‘With the lady in the fox fur.’
‘Yes, she is the Governor’s secretary.’
‘Ah, while the cat’s away ...’
‘Precisely.’
Bobby could also rely on Lily for astute observation.
‘Have you seen that man before, Lil?’
‘Oh yes, he is one of Coco’s regular clients.’
‘Hmm ... she should be careful what she says in front of him.’ Lily laughed at this comment.
‘She doesn’t spend much time talking to her clients, Bobby.’
‘No?’
‘No. And, anyway, she hates men — that’s why she ... does what she does.’
‘So she prefers women?’
‘No, I don’t know what she likes. I’m too frightened to ask.’ Bobby laughed softly to himself and Lily grinned wryly.
Lily was still smiling to herself as she tripped out of Le Prix
after closing time on her way to Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house. She was accustomed to spreading her drinks over the hours following the end of the show when she and the other girls served an array of intoxicating beverages to their boisterous patrons. But tonight she and Bobby had sipped their way through half a bottle of cognac and Lily was feeling a little the worse for wear. She managed to slide her way through the door at the rear of Le Prix, but tripped on the steps and heard a sharp snap as one leg gave way beneath her and she fell in a sprawling heap in the shadows to one side of the door.
‘Oh mon Dieu!’ she bleated, feeling for a sprained ankle with a sinking feeling of impending disaster. Her ankle felt surprisingly solid — or was it the copious quantities of cognac that disguised the pain? Lily tried to stand and fell again, this time discovering the problem. The heel on her right shoe had snapped.
‘Bother, bother, bother!’ she cursed. New shoes were impossible to find in occupied Paris and exorbitantly expensive if they could be sourced. She would have to find the heel and ask Alain or Cabot if he could fix it for her. She scrabbled around in the darkness at the bottom of the steps, crawling several feet into the shadows to one side before her grasping hands happened on the offending heel. She sat in the inky blackness for a moment to catch her breath just as the laughter of one of her fellow showgirls rang out from the alleyway on the other side of the steps. It was the auburn-haired Monique who staggered untidily past, her arm round a tall, thin man who shambled with her in a ragged embrace. The bright moonlight lit their forms as they passed the steps and Lily inhaled sharply as she recognised the thinshouldered man. It was the offensive intruder she had tossed from the boarding house, the man with the atrocious French she suspected of being a cockney and who had aroused all manner of suspicion within her. Lily bristled inwardly. So he was seeing Monique. Now, at last, she could find out more about the odious man and perhaps work out who he was and why he was in Paris apparently unmolested by the Germans who could not have failed to notice an obvious Briton in their midst. Lily set her jaw and followed the pair home to the apartment block behind Madame Gloria’s, careful to keep her distance and limp as quietly as possible carrying her injured shoes in one hand. She watched as they crept through the front door and up the stairs, wary of waking the demonic Madame Fresange who would not have tolerated such a man on her premises.
By the time Lily woke the next morning it was well after nine o’clock and the hustle and bustle of the day had begun. She pulled on her faux silk dressing gown, shook her dishevelled curls and sauntered down to Madame Gloria’s kitchen for a cup of chicory coffee and some otherwise tasteless bread that the chirpy landlady had enlivened with a few pieces of rubbery country cheese that was well past its best and some herbs from a pot on the windowsill. Poppy joined her a few minutes later and Sabine and Sadie sidled in, Sadie’s flossy blonde hair wrapped in a colourful scarf. Lily chewed her bread and dwelt on her coffee, wondering for the hundredth time how Madame Gloria could sip champagne at this hour of the day. No doubt about it, decided Lily, her landlady must be pickled internally. The conversation wandered and meandered aimlessly, jumping from the usual preoccupation with food to complaints about Madame Fresange, the neighbourhood spy, to gossip about the male patrons of Le Prix. Lily saw her chance and grasped it with both hands.
‘I see Monique has a new man,’ she murmured, careful to drop her voice lest the subject wander in unannounced.
‘Yes, that’s Paul Colbert,’ announced Sabine, ‘she met him on le métro last week and they’ve been quite intimate ever since, if you get my meaning.’
‘I haven’t seen Monique with anyone at Le Prix,’ commented Poppy with a quizzical look.
‘No,’ explained Sabine, ‘he doesn’t come to Le Prix. Monique says he’s not on the right side of the Germans. Seems he’s involved in some sort of secret work ... Monique doesn’t know what ... but she thinks he’s terribly clever and very exciting.’
‘Where’s he from?’ asked Lily, trying to sound casual, ‘is he local?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ replied Sabine, ‘Monique says he has the most intriguing accent.’ Poppy and Lily exchanged looks.
‘Hope he’s not in the wrong sort of business,’ commented Poppy, ‘we don’t want the Germans going after poor Monsieur Maurice. Imagine what it would do to Madame Claudette if he was arrested by the Gestapo?’ The girls jumped as a crash sounded behind them. Madame Gloria, only half listening to the girls’ chatter, had heard all too clearly what Poppy had said and dropped a cup in fright. The prospect of Monsieur Maurice being arrested by the dreaded Gestapo was far too terrible for the little landlady to bear and she burst into tears. The girls were on their feet instantly, guiding her gently to a chair, patting her and pouring her a strong ersatz coffee to accompany her usual glass of champagne. They soothed and comforted her and promised not to allow Monique’s shady friend to send the Gestapo after Monsieur Maurice.
‘Men are trouble,’ advised Sabine with a shake of the glossy bob, ‘maybe Monique needs to find herself a different sort of friend.’
‘Women can be just as much trouble,’ retorted Lily, thinking of Bobby’s comment about the Governor’s secretary. But, in this case at least, she knew that Sabine was right.
Lily emerged half an hour later with Poppy at her side, still venting her disapproval. She was less than impressed with Monique’s choice of lovers.
‘You know Monique’s friend is that awful man who crept in that day to drink our cognac,’ she hissed to Poppy who was instantly aghast.
‘Him! Mon Dieu, what is she thinking?’ Lily pursed her lips and regarded her friend seriously.
‘I don’t want that man around here,’ she said with a determined glint in her eye. ‘I’m going to find out more about him and see if I can’t have him frightened off.’ Poppy’s eyes filled with alarm.
‘Don’t do anything silly ... what if he’s dangerous?’ Lily shrugged.
‘All the more reason to have him moved on.’
‘I’ve got a solution for you, cherie,’ suggested Poppy, a mischievous smile now lighting her face. ‘Let’s introduce him to Coco and let her deal with him. I guarantee he’ll get a taste of something unpleasant.’ And she narrowed her eyes and slapped her hand against her thigh in imitation of Coco’s customary whipping action. Lily laughed at her friend.
‘Problem is,’ she retorted, ‘that sort of man would probably like Coco’s punishment!’ No, Lily thought to herself, I’ll find out just what this Paul Colbert’s game is and then I’ll know how to fight fire with fire.
Chapter 17
Madame Gloria’s culinary conundrum
The summer days lengthened and bathed Paris in balmy warmth making the spartan existence of most of the city’s French inhabitants just that little bit more bearable. Resourceful Parisians now supplemented their diet with fish caught in the Seine and lawns and flowerbeds were converted to little vegetable gardens with seeds and tiny plants smuggled in from the countryside. The breeding of rabbits became a growth industry and pigeon coops sprouted in the courtyards of family homes as recipes for rabbit stew and pigeon pie were exchanged up and down the ration queues. Every inch of private space was devoted to cultivation of some sort as Parisians, having survived one winter on hard rations, stockpiled for the next. Madame Gloria received a visit from her neighbour, the unpleasant Madame Fresange, who quizzed her on her contribution to the winter stockpile that La Fresange firmly believed should be established to cater for the residents of Le Prix’s two apartment boarding houses. Madame Fresange had been conspicuously absent from the happy little kitchen of Madame Gloria’s apartment, having complained that one of her most respectable tenants, the irredeemably pious Madame Auguste Dupleix, had witnessed some indescribable antics over the balcony of her second-floor apartment and had taken a bad turn. The doctor had been called — followed by the police who had quizzed Madame Gloria, although her tenants had been inexplicably absent — but no explanation had been offered. Mada
me Fresange had expressed her dissatisfaction and relations between her and Madame Gloria had cooled considerably. Madame Gloria celebrated a few weeks’ holiday from the attentions of her taxing neighbour before the signs indicated that a Pax Fresange was imminent and visits would resume.
Madame Gloria poured her neighbour a cup of chicory coffee and helped herself to a glass of champagne. She would need fortification for this chat, particularly as Lily had christened Madame Fresange the ‘neighbourhood watchdog’ and now, every time Gloria regarded her acidic neighbour, images of canine snouts and barking filled her mind’s eye.
‘You could put one in your bathtub, you know,’ asserted Madame Fresange sipping her chicory coffee with evident distaste.
‘A dog?’ bleated Gloria in confusion, her mind now overtaken by the vivid image of a large Labrador grinning amiably over the lip of her china bathtub. Madame Fresange choked on her chicory.
‘A rabbit!’ she spluttered, spraying Madame Gloria’s pretty embroidered tablecloth with a spatter of brown droplets. ‘Oh do pay attention, you really are terribly vague at times.’ She eyed the champagne glass severely. ‘You really should drink a great deal less. Demon drink,’ she muttered darkly, ‘truly has this country by the throat.’
‘Of course, Madame, I’m sure you are right,’ murmured Gloria, hastening to stem the flow before Madame Fresange launched into one of her favourite lectures. ‘A rabbit in the bathtub? Wouldn’t it make rather a mess?’ She wrinkled her nose at the thought of the despoiling of her shiny white porcelain and the effect of rabbit droppings trampled underfoot.
‘No, no, you lay a carpet of wood shavings in the bathtub and the rabbit can sit on that. Then, when it’s big enough, we kill it and eat it.’
‘Kill it?’ Madame Gloria was instantly horrified, ‘Oh, I don’t think I could kill something.’
Secrets and Showgirls Page 15